Boys in the Valley(86)

He has to get back.

But Poole has convinced him that the best way to save them is to do what he says, to help him exact revenge on all of them.

“An eye for an eye,” he said, and cackled like a fairy tale witch. David had almost broke and ran then. Almost. But a decade of discipline and punishment, of following orders, has been ingrained deeply into him. Poole scorched his will onto David’s mind, cut it into his soul. He does not think Poole can punish him for disobedience, not anymore, but it hardly matters.

He can’t disobey even if he wants to.

So he’s gone to the root cellar, and gotten the things Poole had asked for:

Four barrels of kerosene oil. A lantern. A hatchet.

“They’re heavy, but you’re strong,” he said, his face so close that David had to force himself not to stare into those red pits that were once the priest’s eyes. “And don’t forget the hatchet! It’s on the woodpile in the boiler room. While you’re there, feed the furnace. No point in everyone freezing to death. Now go.”

He brought two barrels the first trip, huffing as he made it back to the foyer, his arms burning with the strain. On the second, he returned with the second pair. He plucked the lantern from the dining hall, and the wood hatchet was stuck into his belt. The hatchet being the one thing he grabbed that made sense.

At least he can defend himself now.

I pray you’re okay, Peter. Curse me for listening to this old fool!

Poole has somehow managed to stumble to the chapel doors on his own. He’s waiting there when David returns the second time. “Put three of them in the center of the foyer, so you can see them easily from the balcony. Put them close to the doors.”

“Well, which is it?” David snaps, using a tone he would never have imagined using in a million years toward the head priest, the very one who scarred his hands and back when he was younger, punishment for indiscretions he can’t even remember.

And by God it feels good.

“You want them in the center or by the doors?” he says, more softly now.

Poole hesitates a moment, as if debating whether to chide the boy’s tone, then simply waves a hand impatiently. “Just do it.”

David sighs and splits the difference, putting all three barrels in a clump. “Okay, Father. They’re down.”

“Good. Do you have the hatchet?”

David pulls it from his belt and grips it, feeling its heft and balance. He thinks he hears muffled screams, and impatience runs through him like wildfire. “Yes. Father, we need to hurry . . .”

“Don’t sass me, boy,” he spits, his voice like a whip. “I let it go once.”

David swallows. Got to hand it to him, he’s still a mean old bastard even without the eyes. “Yes, Father,” he says, and waits.

Poole nods. “Break the spigot off one of the barrels. If it won’t break with the butt of that hatchet, then chop into the wood.”

David looks down at the barrels, the dark red wood, the dark iron spigots near the base. “But . . .” he starts, but Poole cuts him off.

“Do it! As you say, we must hurry!”

David nods dumbly, spins the hatchet in his hand so the blunt end faces downward, and chops hard at the spigot.

It pops off clean, and kerosene oil burbles from the new hole, begins puddling onto the floor. Satisfied, he walks over to Poole. “It’s done.”

Poole reaches out, finds David, and pats his arm. “Excellent.” Poole grabs one of David’s hands and slaps a tin case into it. “Use my matches to strike your lantern. You’ll need to bring the lantern and the last barrel, along with the hatchet. Can you manage?”

“Yes, Father,” David says, disgusted at the pride he feels carrying out the man’s wishes.

Poole pats David’s cheek, smiling. His skin is rough as sandpaper, and David tries not to recoil at his touch. “Good boy. I’ll tell you the rest as we go. Now, grab your things, and let me take your elbow so you can lead me.”

“Okay, but where are we going?”

“Where you’ve wanted to go this entire time, my son,” he says, clenching David’s arm in a fierce, painful grip.

“Take me to the others.”





54


JOHNSON PUSHES BARTHOLOMEW ROUGHLY ASIDE IN his eagerness to get his hands on me.

Once again, like an idiot, I’m frozen to the ground. My mouth hangs open as my brain screams commands to my useless body:

GET UP! FIGHT! RUN! SURVIVE!

SAVE THEM!

“I . . . wait . . .”

Johnson reaches for me and my mind goes blank. All I can think to do is scream, and I’m about to do so when Andrew’s crozier smashes into the side of the big man’s scorched, hideous face. His head knocks to the side, and he appears momentarily dazed. I turn my head to see Byron gripping the staff like a Mongolian warrior bracing for an onslaught of cavalry.

Samuel, who he somehow wrested it from, looks dazed as well, his lip bloodied. Byron must have knocked him in the teeth before he grabbed the weapon.

The action jars me from my wretched stupidity and in a burst I find my feet.

Is this the moment? Our last stand?

So be it.

I’m ready to fight.

“Stop!” Bartholomew yells, and whether he’s addressing my group or his own or Johnson, I have no clue. All I know is everyone stops, at least for a moment. “Johnson, how fucking stupid are you? You oafish, dumb ox,” he says, and his fiery eyes meet mine. “I’ve changed my mind. Kill Byron instead. I want Peter to watch his friend die.”